


Give Up Control (and I’ll show you heaven)

by LeapAngstily



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As long as there is a choice, there is also control – losing that control is possible only once the choice is taken away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Up Control (and I’ll show you heaven)

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Milan's loss against Sampdoria in August 2012.

Gigi assaults Riccardo’s lips as soon as he enters the younger man’s apartment.  
  
It is late, past midnight, but Riccardo is still wide awake: the anger and bitterness over tonight’s game making it impossible to settle down for the night.   
  
They should have won – there is no question about it. He should have been better; should have contributed more to the attack even from his position; should have stopped that one lucky goal from happening. He should have kept calm in the second half – should have controlled the game better.  
  
The kiss is a welcome distraction, wiping his mind clear for the first time since the final whistle.  
  
“Aren’t you supposed to be at home recovering from an injury?” he asks Gigi when they finally pull apart to catch their breaths.  
  
“I was,” Gigi answers with a mischievous smile, tangling his fingers into Riccardo’s hair, still damp from shower, and pressing their foreheads together, “You looked so  _deliciously_  pissed off on TV that I just had to come.”  
  
As if to prove a point, the kiss that follows is filled with hunger, like there is nothing Gigi would rather do than to eat him up right there.   
  
Riccardo’s legs grow weak from the mere intensity of it, and he would probably fall down was it not for Gigi’s firm body flush against his own, keeping him steady.  
  
Riccardo is not wearing any shirt, having been in the middle of changing into more comfortable clothes when the doorbell rang. The fabric of Gigi’s shirt feels rough against his bare chest, the friction against his nipples enough to make him gasp against Gigi’s lips.  
  
“You’re so damn sexy – I would fuck you right here against the wall if it wasn’t against the doctor’s orders.”  
  
The words send shivers of arousal coursing through Riccardo’s body, where they settle as pleasant warmth just below his navel. He can feel himself growing hard already.  
  
“You asked him about it specifically?” he inquires, genuinely curious. He would definitely not put it past Gigi: aside from football, the man practically lives and breathes sex.  
  
“I may have.”  
  
Gigi catches his lips in another scorching kiss as he starts manoeuvring them towards the bedroom, the contact of their bodies never breaking. He does not even need to look where he is going; knowing his way around the apartment like it was his own even though it has not been that long since Riccardo moved in himself.  
  
Riccardo cannot even begin to label the relationship he has with Gigi. It started as a one night stand during the qualifiers for the Euros, but for some reason Gigi kept coming back, turning one silly mistake into a pattern.  
  
At first Riccardo thought it was just a matter of convenience – easy sex with no strings attached whenever the goalkeeper felt like it – but then it became clear that the situation was much more complicated than that.   
  
No one in their right mind would go to the lengths Gigi has gone just for the sake of sex – not even Gigi!  
  
What makes the situation even more fucked up is the fact that Gigi’s  _wife_  knows about them and does not mind it in the least. She even told as much to Riccardo in Poland last summer. It is something Riccardo just cannot figure out, so he opts to ignore it instead.  
  
However, despite all the telltale signs of an actual relationship, they have never actually agreed on anything more permanent. As far as Riccardo knows, he is just one among Gigi’s many fuck buddies.  
  
With time Riccardo has become extremely good at pretending that the thought does not hurt like someone was ripping his heart right out of his chest – he is happy with what he can get, and really, there would be no place for a relationship in their hectic lives anyways.  
  
At times he even manages to fool himself.  
  
The backs of his legs hit the bed and he stumbles down to the mattress, the springs creaking under the sudden weight.  
  
Gigi follows the suit, climbing on top of him and claiming his lips in a bruising kiss, dominating him with all teeth and tongue, which is exactly what Riccardo’s overwhelmed mind needs right now.  
  
Riccardo can feel Gigi’s hard-on against his thigh even through their trousers, and he shifts slightly to press his leg more firmly between Gigi’s, receiving an appreciative groan from the man on top of him.  
  
He is too distracted with the kiss to notice what Gigi is doing before he feels the cold metal against his wrists and then his hands are shackled to the headboard in one swift move.  
  
“The fuck are you doing?” he hisses incredulously, trying to struggle against the handcuffs in vain. He shoots a wide-eyed look at Gigi, who is smirking victoriously, a dangerous glint in his eyes.  
  
“Thought we could try something different for once,” he tells Riccardo in a low voice and leans down to kiss him again. He ends up brushing Riccardo’s cheek instead of his lips as the younger man turns his head away in silent protest.  
  
“C’mon, it can’t be that bad,” Gigi’s voice is filled with amusement, like he finds Riccardo’s reaction cute, “You need to let go of that damn control occasionally or it’ll eat you up alive.”  
  
Riccardo scoffs at him angrily, because Gigi is the last person who should be allowed to lecture him about being a control freak – Mr. Gianluigi “control-is-my-second-name” Buffon.  
  
“It’s not funny! Now release me – go fuck Torres or someone else who actually likes your fucking power games!”  
  
Riccardo practically spits out the Spaniard’s name, his deep-rooted jealousy seeping into his voice involuntarily. He is using his anger to mask the panic that is gradually building up inside of him, clenching his sides and making it hard to breathe.  
  
He hates being out of control, at the complete mercy of someone else and unable to do anything to change it – even if that someone is Gigi, whom he trusts more than life itself, despite the stormy nature of their relationship and his own insecurities. Not once has he wondered whether he has misplaced his trust before now.  
  
Giving himself to Gigi willingly is different: that way he can still control the situation; he is free to get up and walk away if he wants to. (Not that he ever does.)  
  
The feeling of helplessness that being handcuffed causes in him is completely new to Riccardo, and he does not like it one bit.  
  
“Why’d I go for someone else when it’s you I want?” Gigi asks quietly, almost growling right next to Riccardo’s ear, his breath making Riccardo shiver involuntarily. He shifts against the shackles again, the metal digging painfully into his skin.  
  
Gigi is straddling his legs, limiting his movements and rendering the further struggles useless.  
  
“Why’d you think I’d do this with anyone else but you, Riccardo?”  
  
“ _Because_  I don’t like it,” he whispers, his pleading eyes searching Gigi’s face again, “Just take them off, Gigi, please?”  
  
For a second it seems like Gigi is actually considering the request, but then he leans down to bite Riccardo’s earlobe playfully before answering with a simple “No.”  
  
His tone may be light, but Gigi’s whole being is oozing with the same quiet intensity that he possesses on the pitch – he might shout obscenities to the opponents or instructions to the defence (and occasional obscenities to the defence, too), but underneath it all there is the strength and passion that need no words.   
  
It is a quality that cannot be obtained, it just  _is_  – and it is both exciting and terrifying at the same time, a deadly combination that draws people to Gigi wherever he goes.  
  
At the moment Riccardo is inclined towards being terrified: he is stuck at the bed, the handcuffs and Gigi’s weight on him limiting his movements to bare minimum, the chance of escape nowhere to be seen.  
  
He slumps back against the mattress, willing his erratic heartbeat to calm down. Maybe Gigi will grow tired of this game if he offers no resistance.  
  
“That’s more like it,” Gigi comments in a tone that would be more suitable to console a five-year-old. He presses his lips against the juncture of Riccardo’s neck and shoulder, the touch much gentler than any of their earlier kisses. One of his hands is caressing Riccardo’s chest, fleeting touches right over his heart.  
  
Riccardo closes his eyes and bites his lip in a desperate attempt to block out his surroundings, to ignore the way his body is reacting to the surprisingly loving touches.  
  
Even that privilege is stolen from him as Gigi suddenly pinches his nipple and bites his neck without a warning. Riccardo is fairly sure he can feel the sensitive skin breaking under the sharp teeth, but perhaps his panicky mind is just playing tricks on him.  
  
His breath is coming out in shallow puffs now, the lack of oxygen making him feel dizzy. The edges of his vision are blurry when he opens his eyes, and he has no idea whether it is due to the panic or the tears slowly dwelling in his eyes.  
  
Gigi hushes him, dropping soft kisses on his pulse point, sensing the fastening heartbeat under his lips. There is no doubt that he is aware of the distraught state Riccardo is in.  
  
Riccardo’s hands are grasping for something, anything, but there is nothing but thin air in his reach. His wrists are hurting, the shackles cutting deeper into his skin with his every movement.  
  
“Gigi please, just let me--” he manages to gasp out before his breath hitches as the goalkeeper cups his crotch through his sweatpants. He is still hard – his body is reacting to Gigi’s every action despite the panic clutching his insides and his mind screaming protests, and it is utterly humiliating and plain _wrong_.  
  
“Just let it go, it’ll get better once you give up the control,” Gigi instructs him as he slips his hand under the waistband and wraps his fingers around the awaiting erection.  
  
A strangled moan escapes Riccardo’s lips at the first contact and he tries to buck into the touch instinctively. The movement is still limited, Gigi’s weight binding him down to the mattress.  
  
“Now, if you promise to be nice, I might get off and make you feel good. How’s that sound?” Gigi whispers against his neck, licking the area that is still sensitive from his earlier bite. He rises to lean on his elbows, searching Riccardo’s gaze.  
  
Riccardo avoids his eyes pointedly, pressing a side of his face against the soft pillows that smell like Gigi. There is no place in his apartment that does not remind him of the older man. He halts his struggles nonetheless, even holding his breath in order not to move.  
  
It is a subtle sign of surrender that Gigi takes as a permission to get off his legs.  
  
“See, that wasn’t so bad,” he comments with a smile as he slowly works on the bindings of Riccardo’s sweatpants and moves to pull them off completely.  
  
Riccardo takes the chance to aim a fast kick towards Gigi’s head the moment his pants are off, but the goalkeeper blocks it with practiced ease. He takes a firm hold on Riccardo’s ankle and kisses the inside of his calf, clicking his tongue in disapproval.  
  
“Now, what did I say about being nice?”  
  
“Fuck you!” Riccardo snaps back, trying to repeat the action with his other foot only for Gigi to catch it as well, “I hate you, you fucking stupid piece of shit!”  
  
“Such language...” Gigi sniggers as he moves closer, settling between Riccardo’s legs, never releasing his hold on his ankles, “Didn’t your mother teach you anything? Or are the social norms really that different in Germany?”  
  
Riccardo is seething with anger now, his one chance of stopping this farce deflected like it was child’s play. Gigi is holding all the cards now, still fully clothed while Riccardo is completely naked, his whole body spread out for the goalkeeper to see and explore.  
  
Suddenly he is too exhausted to care anymore. If this is how it is going to be, then better get it over with as soon as possible. He sacks into the mattress, not caring about the pain in his wrists as he lets his arms relax, letting them hang off the shackles like he was a ragdoll.  
  
“That’s it, good boy,” Gigi coos at him, like it is a dog he is talking to instead of a human being. He finally releases Riccardo’s ankles, wrapping one of his arms around his leg instead, spreading him out even further.  
  
The tears finally slip out of Riccardo’s eyes, and he tries to hide them into the pillow under his head, but Gigi stops him with a gentle hand on his chin.  
  
“You don’t need to hide it,” he whispers, calloused fingers wiping away the wetness on Riccardo’s cheeks before he presses the softest of kisses below his right eye, “You know I’m not going to hurt you, don’t you?”  
  
Riccardo does know, or at least he thinks he does, which is possibly the worst part of this all – Gigi can take away his control, his will to fight, his self-respect, and yet he would still trust him with his life if things came to that.  
  
Another bout of tears streams out of his eyes: this time from humiliation and confusion more than anything else.  
  
Gigi keeps kissing his face, catching the tears before they reach his jaw; far too gentle for someone who is capable of doing something like this is the first place, with no signs of remorse whatsoever.  
  
Then finally,  _finally_ , Gigi reaches down again and starts jerking him off with unhurried movements, coaxing Riccardo back into full hardness with only a few steady jerks.   
  
He keeps whispering soft words into Riccardo’s hair, his lips ghosting over his ear: telling him how beautiful he is, how much he wants him, how amazing he feels in his hand, how long he has wanted to do this, how much he loves Riccardo.  
  
It is all those words Riccardo has been dying to hear ever since they first started their relationship, but now it all seems cold, meaningless.  
  
He still lifts his hips to meet the languid caresses, gasps when Gigi runs his fingers over the sensitive tip of his cock, moans aloud when the man tightens his hold just slightly. He is so close to coming already, and he is just wishing for it to end.  
  
However, Gigi has other ideas. He lets go of Riccardo’s erection just as the first trembles start flowing through his body, leaning back to admire his handiwork.  
  
Riccardo bucks his hips upwards in attempt to find the lost contact again, trashing against the handcuffs as he tries to turn to his side and get some friction that would give him the orgasm he is being denied of.  
  
When he does not succeed – Gigi’s hold on his leg still effectively stopping him from moving – he turns his accusing gaze at the goalkeeper, who is still kneeling between his legs, watching him with dark eyes that combine amusement and arousal.  
  
“Need some help?” he asks in feigned innocence, fishing a small bottle of lubricant from his back pocket and turning it around in his hand like it was a toy. He uncaps it after a while, squeezing some of the clear lotion on his hand but not making any move to touch the younger man again.  
  
Riccardo groans in exasperation, in a manner that would usually include him throwing his hands in the air theatrically. He settles for a (hopefully) menacing glare in Gigi’s direction that only earns him a delighted laugh.  
  
“Look at you, still putting up a fight.”  
  
Gigi leans down to kiss his hair gently, the briefest pressure on Riccardo’s cock between their bodies making the midfielder wriggle his hips and whine softly at the contact.  
  
“Now, remember I could just leave you here if I wanted to,” Gigi reminds him as he pulls away, careful not to soil anything with the lubricant still on his palm.  
  
Riccardo’s wide eyes shoot back to him in a record time, the panic suddenly pulling at his gut again, “You wouldn’t.”  
  
But he knows even without receiving an outright answer that Gigi could do it. He could leave Riccardo here: shackled to the bed, butt naked, painfully hard, and no way of releasing himself – stuck like that until Gigi took pity on him or someone else started worrying about his sudden disappearance.  
  
“Gigi,  _please_ ,” he is practically begging now, giving up the last of his pride, “I want you to fuck me. I need you to--”  
  
Gigi presses two slicked fingers inside him before he can finish, the sudden combination of pain and pleasure rendering him speechless. He lets out a breathy moan, instinctively trying to reach out to Gigi only to be reminded once again that he is handcuffed – the pain in his wrists so intense by now that he knows he will have horrible bruises there long after this is over.  
  
Gigi leans down to bite his neck again, right next to the previous bruise already forming there. Riccardo will have a ton of things to explain when he gets back to Milanello for next week’s practice.  
  
The fingers inside him brush against his prostate expertly, the months of regular practice making it easy for Gigi to find what he is looking for in no time. Riccardo practically trashes against the shackles to get more of that sensation, not caring that he is crying again.  
  
He is not even sure what is causing the tears anymore, the feelings in his head mixing and merging into completely unfamiliar ones.  
  
Riccardo bites his lip in attempt not to make any more embarrassing sounds, but it is so, so difficult with Gigi’s hands on him. He can taste his own blood on his tongue by the time Gigi retracts his fingers.  
  
“Now look what you’ve done,” he berates Riccardo quietly, wiping the blood from his lip with his fingers and lifting them to his own lips, his tongue darting out to taste the red liquid.  
  
As disturbing as the image is, it also makes Riccardo even harder. It in turn makes him feel even more embarrassed.  
  
“Why is everything of you so fucking hot?” Gigi asks him contemplatively, “Like I could settle for anyone else now that I’ve got you.”  
  
He leans down to kiss Riccardo, licking away the remains of the blood, exploring his lips and mouth like the sensation was suddenly completely new to him.  
  
Even as the kiss continues, Riccardo can feel Gigi working on opening his own trousers – he is still fully clothed, his self-restraint something out of this world – and then rolling a condom on himself the moment he pulls his cock out.  
  
Gigi breaks the kiss and moves back to a more upright position, looking down at Riccardo with a look that feels like it might set him on fire. He takes a hold of the back of Riccardo’s knee, pushing his thigh against his chest to create a better angle of entry.  
  
He positions himself against Riccardo’s entrance, lingering there until Riccardo gives the final broken  _please_ , and then he impales the younger man with one hard thrust.  
  
Riccardo is seeing stars, his body trembling and his gaze growing more blurry with each thrust. He is far past caring about the pain, pulling on the handcuffs desperately because he needs to move, he needs to touch Gigi, and he  _needs_  to do something, just,  _please let me go_.  
  
The shackles stay where they are, and Riccardo cannot stop crying even when he comes without touching his cock, the feeling of Gigi inside him more than enough to bring him over the edge.  
  
Gigi follows him with his own orgasm almost immediately, groaning loudly with his last few thrusts, and then it is over.  
  
Finally.  
  
Riccardo gets up the moment Gigi unshackles him, not sparing him another glance – he can barely stand up with his trembling legs, but the feelings of humiliation coursing through him are so intense that he just has to get away.  
  
He grabs the closest set of clothes, dresses in the living room and heads out of the apartment, slamming the door in a pointed message.  
  
He walks around the forever-buzzing streets of Milan until his legs cannot hold his weight anymore, and then he spends over an hour sitting on a bench in front of a brightly lit show window of a clothing store he has never paid any attention to before now.  
  
He wants to be angry with Gigi, he wants it so bad it physically hurts, but he just  _cannot_. He feels cold, empty, betrayed, and yet he still wants to go back and let Gigi do it all over again.  
  
He is so fucked up – they are so fucked up.  
  
A passer-by gives him an odd look as he starts to laugh by himself – at himself – wiping away the traces of tears still gathering in his eyes.  
  
Gigi is still at his place when Riccardo comes back in the early hours of the morning, the first rays of sunlight already cutting through the darkness.  
  
“God, Riccardo! Where have you been?” Gigi jumps up from the couch the moment Riccardo walks into the living room. He collects Riccardo into his warm embrace without asking for permission and kisses him over and over again.  
  
“I was so scared. I thought I’d driven you off for good. You know I couldn’t handle that, don’t you?”  
  
Riccardo leans into the embrace, too tired to reply in words. Coming back to Gigi feels like coming home, and it does not make any sense, but neither of them cares at that moment.  
  
They really are fucked up, the two of them.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Gigi whispers into his hair after a long silence, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”  
  
Riccardo shakes his head hesitantly. There are the bruises on his wrists and on his neck, but they will heal. The emotional scars might be there for good, but they may have well been there all along.  
  
“Just, don’t do it again – I’ll seriously walk out on you if you do.”  
  
“Never, I promise.”  
  
Empty threats and empty promises, they both know, but for now it is enough. Perhaps it will be enough after the next time, too, and the next, and the next...  
  
It is only when they are snuggled up in bed – their legs entangled and arms wrapped around each other – that Riccardo notices that the mental replays of the earlier match have stopped, that he can actually think about the disappointing loss without blaming himself.  
  
“Idiot, I could’ve handled that loss without your help,” he mumbles into Gigi’s chest, and he thinks he can hear a concurring hum before he drifts off to sleep.


End file.
